Civil rights leader, Bill Cosby has shocked the world by escaping a jail sentence during his lifetime, not being a good basketballer and living into old age.
"Hey, hey, hey!" he told his overseer as he picked up the bail for the release of his incarcerated and very christian brothers.
"I'm going to pick up the bail," the cotton-picking Negro sang as he put pun to paper to sign copies of his latest book.
'Crime and Punishment', the latest novel from the hind of Cosby, charts the meteoric arse of Oprah Winfrey as she snuggles to kill Jerry Springer.
Jerry, a neo-conman, is caught unawares that the woman he's boarding with is plotting to give it to him when he's not looking in the camera.
"I'll be very surprised if I get the axe," he told censors as Cosby prepared to talk turkey about his numerous affairs outside of marriage.
A focal campaigner for the Nuclear family, Cosby is still amazed that nobody has dropped the bomb, until now.
"I'm going to drop a bomb on you," he wrote in the cover of Tom Cruise's copy as he jumped on a ship headed for the promised land.
"The empirical evidence points to evil being a human construction, not unlike a city," he continued as black readers were gummed down in their homes.
"Best Wishes, Bill," he finished.
Heavens above, America knows how to handle freedom-fighters.
Kill them, kill them all.
Norm, nature-laugher, florist extraordinaire, bong-head, simpleton, Marxist reanimator, dope-thinker, papal-pleaser, stay-at-home dud, fart-laugher, and kiddy-art crayoner is too much of a laugher to think that nature doesn't have the answers.
"I'm too conceited to admit that I am conceited," the willing masturbator, crass-dresser and master of conceit told waiting ear-holes.
Words, insane, inane, human creations, are barely of our own making, anyway, he said whittling his pencil into a sharp point.
That we think they are the masters of reality is a sham, the increasingly erotic wordsloth told the mastery that is the world we try and hopelessly master.
Particularly when they're so hard to muster, anyway, the authoritarian farce of reason said as he stacked a pile of words to create offence he was building to keep the pests out.
Dearth, waiting in the wings like a flea on a pigeon, is too plentiful to believe in our supremacy, the increasingly rabid dag told fellow laughers.
It's unfortunate that pride comes before a fool, the foolish philanthropist told himself as someone paraded a float of big words down the river.
Words, water off a dick's blog, are not reality; reality is hard like my fart.
Nature beats book for truth, I'm silly.
Body-hoarding gimp, ruglord, mister of disguise and indecent until proven quilty man Tony Mokbel has pointed the thinger squarely at the woman he described as "bossy-britches" in stunning revelations to be aired soon.
"She looks like a regular person," Fat Tony told Jenny Craig as he sat down to a calorie contorted regime.
"But inside beats the heart of person with clogged arteries," the overwrought Mokbel snorted while slipping on a Diet Coke.
Mokbel claims that he was merely a poppet for Corby, who he also describes as "about 75kgs".
"That puts her street value off the graph!" he muttered to inquiring soap-makers.
The claims are refuted strangely by Corby's mother, who has reason to believe that Corby, on the run in leotards, has lost weight recently.
"I'm sending a convoy of obese Australians over to see Mokbel," she confessed to her father, for she had sunned, herself.
"The whole thing is going to blow up in his face!" she exclimbed, downering a hymnburger with the lit.
Salt and sugar are not drugs.
Lord, no!
The Jews are poised to attack sinful city of sunny Sydney as the Pope takes off to launch attacks on World Youth Day.
"These measures are our preferred course of action," said one money-grubber as he awaits a messiah who has already left.
The train doesn't carry anyone, unhardly.
The Pope, chosen by God to represent his interests - financial and strategic - here on Earth, has asked God forgiveness for "not whipping them out when I had the chance."
We underpantstand he was stalking about a very naughty boy.
Sydney, a citadel on the rocks, is hoisting the unction - World Youth Day, to spread the weird.
The massage is the medium.
Hated in the UK for his fondlingness of Her Mingesty but loved in Great Britain for his treatment at the hinds of Phil the Greek, former Australian Prime Monster Paul Keating has revealed all to no one.
"Yes, she loved me. Yes, she adored me." the one time lover of Princess Diana told Elton Johnians.
The revelations come as no surprise to the maniac himself as he, Elton himself, told hairdressers: "There's going to be hell's toupee!" as he watched Keating's hairline.
The Greek Phil, former fish and chopperer to the stars, has told Keating to keep his grubby hands of my wife.
I'm not even married.
"Only I can be her tampon," Phil told Keating in a heated car driven through Dianas's tunnel by the one-time buttlover.
Keating is staying in a cell as the whole thong combs over.
"This isn't quite what we meant by padded," Phil told consumers of his fish sticks.
Watch this spice.
Those unwilling victims who unfortunately succumbed to the irresistible charms of kiddie-pornographer, terrorist sympathiser and drug boss, Bill "Mad Dog" Henson now tell of their years of torment in front of his vaselined apparatus.
"He used to really smear it on," said one recently formed adolescent with a fanny gate.
The victims were assembled by harmless community leaders who were licking for some action of their own.
"Unfortunately these kids are no longer kids at all," one federal policeman said as his download finished.
"It's thanks to these disgusting images of the human body that we should all fear the human body," a crusader for the righteousness of their own egocentric altruism stated.
Bill Henson, himself now undead, probably wishes he was.
The heavily pregnant father of his wife and gun wielding wrestling maniac told the disbelieving Pollack, before he pimped him full of lead, that he was one of his chosen people.
"I am not saying I'm God, or that I'm a know-it-all. I'm just saying I'm a woman trapped inside the body of a man," the transgendered man told customs officials.
Police politely apprehended the suspicious sort swiftly as s/he tried on swimsuits in a stall at the delicatessan.
"There's nothing delicate about this salami," the suspect said swinging a sausage from his skirt.
Shoppers had become alarmed after waking up to a loud ringing in their rears later identified as shorts being fried from the assailant's scone.
"Have you ever seen a Jew earing shorts?", a white-wing croupier told gambollers as he chased after the trannie.
It was then that Police swooned on the shemale with a mating ritual that onlookers have described as a cancer.
Pollack, lying dying in the street, could only watch on as his wife pissed before his eyes.
Thus ended the worst day of shooting in the detractor's career.
The new vehicle, descried by executives as the latest in the ever-decreasing gap between desitiny and home, is descried by environmentalists as a car that shits all over anything else on the road.
Utilising cheap immigrant workers under the floor of the vehicle, where they live with their children and grandchildren, the Commoder wipes up after it's off.
"Australia is a notion of passengers," revealed one immigrant living and working under the bonnet.
The Commoder, with a being in every bonnet, faeces injected and fast like a fridge on rollerskits, is a must for eery Australians looking to announce their identity.
"It's not a symbol of why the world is fast going to shit the way that it is when all we want is more of the things that are sending the world to shit," said one silly sausage.
Pricks.
The playboy, dirty old maniac, womens' lip-operationer and smacking jacket wearer told his mum that he only reads Newsweek for the naked self-interest.
Hef, unashamedly and unreservedly and unapologetically and unrepentantly informed, told his mater that he couldn't imagine a bunny with a name ending in Berg.
"There's no Hebrew word for breast augmentation," Hef crowed as he unveiled his new venture, Playkike.
"I'm bringing the beard back to the bearded clam," he said clasping his clammy ones together.
His mother, totally stuffed and off her rocker, found his stash under his bed as she was hunting rabbis and is believed to have bought his story.
"He could sell Ice to smack-heads," a rabbi told his meddling mother as he posed for the chimera.
Playkike will be on selves very shirtly.
Held in the labyrinthial dungeons of the Whitehouse, US Presidenture George W. Bush married his daughter of twenty or so ears in a lavish musical conducted by the reanimated corpse of Nazi synthesizer Herbert Von Karajan.
"I was very happy to give away my daughter," Bush said under his breathmint.
"She's no oil painting. I couldn't give her away," he revealed, giving himself away.
His other daughter, no less of a thing unlike an oil painting than the other who's not one either, is up for auction on Ebay.
"The highest bid so far is $2.78, but I'm not going to give her away," Bush told bargain haunters.
Condoleeza Rice, clearly inflatulated with Georgey, heartbroken at losing the olive of her martini is still holding out hopelessly for another shot at the title.
"I'm not going to throw myself at him," Rice said as she threw herself over the hippy couple.
Marriage is a holy unction between a man and woe.
In a shock to many floorgrowers of computer keyboards, top expats have discovered that we'd be safer if we ate dinner in the dunny and wrote and read wiping up afterwords.
"This is a slap in the face to the computer literati," said one well-gnome internet ulcer as he took to his missus with a rolling pin.
The study, conducted by unemployed ticket-inspectors, took over three ears to complete and caustic over an onion dullards to furnish.
"We suspected that computer keyboards were home to dangerous microdes," said a leading expat, "and now I have to go to the buffet-room."
Computer keyboards, home to dangerous macrorganisations, will now be fitted out with sanitary journal cakes to protect us from bad spells and the like.
The bedraggled Liberals are reportedly seeking Norm to fill the leadership vacuum laughed by outgoing and gregarious brothel-goer John Howard.
"He's my troll-model," Norm said as he sheltered under a bridge.
It's comments like these that have Liberal party power-pokers salivating at the prospect of the celebrated waiter tucking over the wanes of the political sewing-machine.
"I can stitch anything up," Norm said as put penis to paper in an ahistoric moment.
John Howard has endorsed the strange maniac telling his wife: "He reminds me of me when I was committed."
Norm has refused to be drawn on paper.
Belittled mugger and all-rind good spot, Norm has sniffelled the ignonimy of having to look "silly" for pisstaking starch-footed Kevin Rudd for a pedestrian.
"I'll be flighting these charges vigourously," the indolent-one told TV guides.
We understand that Norm, who has never stunk solo, was a candidate to be Australia's first president until misfortune landed on his fedora.
"Look, Norm is a very misguided individual," Rudd said of the channel-surfing hazy-bones.
"We think he'd make a fabulous backbencher," he said as new polls showed a traumatic upswank in Norm's polarity.
Norm, who hates stalking about himself, has refused to make a comma.
"I've got no comma to make at this time," the deceptive dredger told ocean floors.
Norm is expecting re-erection, a saucy siren sounds.
Norm, the wanking headline behind so many outrageous sandals worn with socks, has revealed his wedgie to a Medea throng in retaliation to the hounding he has sniffelled at their hinds.
"I'm sick of reading about my life," the media magnet told refigerators.
"I'm getting a talking book," the clearly cerebrally challenging creator of numerous hints furnished wit.
The Medea, a scored nuffer and waif, has eaten our laughs away with its constraint hope.
Headlines for Norm told us that they had no hind in the bardy of the piece.
It remains to be seen if Norm can keep his gnome out of the head.
Despectacled clogger Norm has refused to admit that sex-tapes circulating through the internet have damaged his reputation as he prepares for bed.
"I know it's early," the madmaniac told worms, "but I'm fearing tiredness."
The maniac, ungnome for his dearth of witches, has span increasingly out of bed recently.
"This tape only runs for a couple of minutes anyway," the weirdy-looking Norm yawned as he flopped out of head.
"When I get my hands on it," he fumed, "I just don't know what not to do."
It is believed the tapes are to feature in advertisements for Solo, a maniac's drunk.
I'm not rarely that bad.
Spanking from in front of his kitchen sink, and transfixed by his rancid reflux, the bogging heftyweight told his innumerable persecutors that everybody is out to get me.
"That hardly anybody has even heard of him doesn't seem to worry him," an unundied man said sifting through Norm's rubbish.
Unable or unwilling to be plagiarised away from his kitchen sick, Norm remains adamant that he is neither in laugh with himself or suffering failings of persecution.
"These things are real," Norm said of a troop of avenging pink elephants at his door.
The saga is believed to stem from his inability to accept his own flailings.
Norm remains cooped up with his pen as this goes to print.
Embattled boogler Norm has slammed his critics for calling him a lazy parasite after he couldn't be bothered finishing
"I always finish my sentences," the errant spiller told his pet pug.
It's a climb that is strongly refuted by irrefutable accidence brought forward by his enemies.
"We know how to organise information into legible sentences," the sensible citizens in an insensible world told authorities.
It is understood that sensible sentences are in accord with a world perceived through reliable senses.
"Sentences should reflect the secure handle we have on things," the rabidly slipping information-gatherings told sadvertisers.
The sentence is due to be handled down tomorrow.
Celebrity reporter, ad authority, and peas advocado, Norm has jumped on a pair of man-eating crocodile skin loafers that threatened to belong to his girlfriend.
"I saw them first," the man's man told the store manager as his better-half broke in two.
"I just had to have them," the impoversihed clogger said to his devastated curlfriend.
It is believed that Norm has the snatching handbag and just needed the shoes to go with his outfit.
"Now all I need is the pants," he said as he floated off down the river.
When asked where he'd wear such fabulous attire, the retiring bogger told us: "Out shopping."
Nothing can stop the shopaholic's rampage as croc's across the river hang on to their hats.
Transmen across Mother Earth are falling pregnant thanks to the latest craze that is weeping the floor: tears.
"Women have been stealing our jobs for years," one heavily fertile transman told his hairdresser.
Transmanians say they feel incredible to be able to finally deliver something that isn't a crying sham out their passages.
"Babies grow faster in the bowel," one screamed in pains that proved to be a false Islam.
"I was only shitting," the Transman wrote on the bowl.
The trend that has made women obsolete is helping men get in touch with their feminine asides.
"I always wanted a Ute," one transman said as he drove off to a day of labour.
Corn-lover, chimp-magnet, and dog-skinner, Jennifer Lopez has been upstaged in a special ceremony to honour the charitable work of her crab-catcher.
The mangey oyster, responsible for more head-trauma than her larynx, will never be the sane again after delivering two bouncing baby bangers onto a plate of mash.
The pair of sausages, mostly lips and anuses, stunningly responsible for upstaging Lopez's stunner of a stunt, are avoiding the media for fear of a squint of sauce.
Lopez strenuosly denies reports that her monkey-maker will never wink quite as well as before.
"These little ones of mine," JLo told her bank-roller, "didn't even touch the sides."
"I've still got my own lips and anus anyway," a furious JLo said while scoffing down a sausage.
Lopez is set to jump her motormouth over her grand canyon in the coming weeks.
Acquisitional artist to the stores, Ken Done has been arrested by police at his palatial abode after an investigation discovered he was the head of a child-pornography rink.
"He's been skating on thin ice," said the detective in charge of the arresting ice-ballet.
The artist, businessman, designer, child-molester, pedophile, poofter-pasher, scrabble-player, monopoly-exponent, tea-toweller, t-shirter, back-scratcher, mind-bender, moustache-wearer and short-lifter released a statement to the media that was too bright and colourful to be anything other than the work of a bucket-waver.
"I am innocent of the charges," he stated, "but I wouldn't mind if I wasn't."
The skirt-licker is believed to have a penchant for people in pre-pubescence.
"What's done is done," Done told his bank-manager while frittering away his banana-lounge.
The case continues.
In a coup for wealthy arts-holes, striving artists have increased the size of the pool in the Archibald lottery.
"We've had to dig around in the dirt for years," said one blood-shot-eyed loser in a dtch.
The coup, chicken-feed for wealthy cats, is a cage.
The pool cleaner, a woman without a moustache, arrived with her children to sweep the pool for her.
"It's not creepy to get my crawlers to do my dirty work," she told the wealthy land-owners.
There can only be one winner in the exploitation of pool-diggers.
"It's me," the winner told jubilant art-lovers.
When asked if she could be any clearer, she told baby-shitters for Sean Connery: "Do I have to paint a picture for you?"
In a bonanza for the paparazzi, home and away the best racketeer in the electrical circus, Bec Cartwright has told her father: "Gee, Pa."
After pondering her predicament, hot and heavy with a horse, Hewitt (nee Cartwright) needed to sit down in an esky full of ice.
"The equine was enormously erotic," explained an erratic Eskimo.
The poor horse had to be taken away in a hearse.
When asked about the affair the horse could only say: "Pal, I'm knackered."
Bec's father, bewildered by his daughter's promiscuity, has comforted his son-in-law, Lleyton by electing to receive.
"For me, he serves custard," he told the fans while sweating professorially.
Hewitt denies he's thick and rich.
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